S T R E A M # 3 2

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My specialty? Delicious morsels of vomit. I bake them in my grandmother’s oven. The oven doesn’t exactly work. You turn the dial and it smells gassy. It smells gassy even though the pilot light is on. I should call somebody to fix it, but I’m too cheap. And lazy. Or busy. Yes, “I’m busier than a one-toothed man in a corn-on-the-cob eating contest.” What am I busy with? Stuff. Things. None of your cotton-pickin’ bus-wax. Just now, I’ve looked up that word: “bus-wax.” I wanted to see if it qualified for legitimacy. I’ve not thought of the word “bus-wax” for many years. In sooth, it’s not: “bus-wax,” but: “beeswax.” The dictionary I’m looking at (when I’m not looking at this, or at anything else) offers two definitions. The first defines “beeswax” as “the wax secreted by bees to make honeycombs and used to make wood polishes and candles…” I didn’t know about the “wood polishes and candles” part. We’re really gonna miss those bees when they all buzz off into oblivion. The second definition is classified as “informal.” This was the definition I was looking for: “a person’s concern or business…” It goes on to list an example. Ah, beeswax. There was a time when I would go outside and eat my peas and cornbread but that was only in my dreams. I’m lying to you: I never remember my dreams. I’m still lying: I seldom remember my dreams – that would be the truth, Baby Ruth.* More often than not, on those rare occasions when I do remember having dreamt, I only remember having dreamt – that is, I seldom remember what I dreamt about. Sorry. I’m sorry I can’t recount my dreams for you here. And that’s the truth. Baby Ruth. I’m sure my dreams would make for more engrossing reading. Well, I can’t really be sure – that is, given that I seldom remember what I dream about when I remember dreaming at all. I think I’m warming up to the warm up. Yes, I am. At least I hope so. What’s great about living around here is the variety of weather conditions. One cannot count on the weather for anything. Not in these parts, no. Then again, I’m sure one can try. Whenever it looks like it’s going to rain, or whenever it starts to drizzle a bit, Grandpop’ll say, “I think it’s trying to rain.” And, then, whenever it starts to continuously rain, no matter how hard or light, he’ll almost always say, “It’s really coming down.” Grandpop is turning into one of those toys - the kind that speak when you pull its string. They don’t make those anymore, do they? All the talking toys today, they’ve got buttons of some sort, don’t they? Or they’ve got motion-detecting sensors. Anyway, my point is that Grandpop has a limited stock of canned responses for just about everything. I think I’ve written them all down – but not in one place. Must organize my notes. Someday. I’ve taken copious notes. My extremely intimidating high school driver’s ed teacher (who also coached the varsity football team) might be impressed. He often liked to shout at us kids, “Can you operate?! Can you function?!” Trust me, he was extremely intimidating. Bottom reached. 

30 June 2008 

*[For the record, I’ve never sampled a Baby Ruth. Why? Well, up until several seconds ago, I’d erroneously believed that Baby Ruths were filled with shredded coconut. Wikipedia informs me that they aren’t. Alas, I’ve held this false belief for nearly fifty years. My apologies to Curtiss, Nabisco, Nestlé and Ferrara. I’ll purchase and sample one posthaste.] 

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